Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

‘We have to.’ I’m already getting tired now and the tireder I get, the shorter the answers get.

‘Who says?’

‘Security.’

‘Security who?’

‘Airport security. Through there.’ I nod in the direction of the metal detectors.

‘Where do we go now?’ he asks once I retrieve our boarding passes from the machine.

‘To check our bags in.’

‘Can we not carry them on?’

‘No.’

‘Hello,’ the lady behind the counter smiles, and takes my passport and Dad’s ID.

‘Hello,’ Dad says chirpily, a saccharine smile forcing itself through the wrinkles of his permanently grumpy face.

I roll my eyes. Always a sucker for the ladies.

‘How many bags are you checking in?’

‘Two.’

‘Did you pack your own bags?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’ Dad nudges me and frowns. ‘You packed my bag for me, Gracie.’

I sigh. ‘Yes, but you were with me, Dad. We packed it together.’

‘Not what she asked.’ He turns back to the lady. ‘Is that OK?’

‘Yes.’ She continues, ‘Did anybody ask you to carry anything for them on the plane?’

‘N—’

‘Yes,’ Dad interrupts me again. ‘Gracie put a pair of her shoes in my bag because they wouldn’t fit in hers. We’re only going for a couple of days, you know, and she brought three pairs. Three .’

‘Do you have anything sharp or dangerous in your hand luggage – scissors, tweezers, lighters or anything like that?’

‘No,’ I say.

Dad squirms and doesn’t respond.

‘Dad,’ I elbow him, ‘tell her no.’

‘No,’ he finally says.

‘Well done,’ I snap.

‘Have a pleasant trip.’ She hands us back our IDs.

‘Thank you. You have very nice lipstick,’ Dad adds before I pull him away.

I take deep breaths as we approach the security gates and I try to remind myself that this is Dad’s first time in an airport and that if you’ve never heard the questions before, particularly if you’re a seventy-five-year-old, I agree they would seem quite strange.

‘Are you excited?’ I ask, trying to make the moment enjoyable.

‘Delirious, love.’

I give up and keep to myself.

I collect a clear plastic bag and fill it with my make-up and his pills, and we make our way through the maze that is the security queue.

‘I feel like a little mouse,’ Dad comments. ‘Will there be cheese at the end of this?’ He gives a wheezy laugh. Then we are through to the metal detectors.

‘Just do what they say,’ I tell him while taking off my belt and jacket. ‘You won’t cause any trouble, will you?’

‘Trouble? Why would I cause trouble? What are you doing? Why are you taking your clothes off, Gracie?’

I groan quietly.

‘Sir, could you please remove your shoes, belt, overcoat and cap?’

‘What?’ Dad laughs at him.

‘Remove your shoes, belt, overcoat and cap.’

‘I will do no such thing. You want me walking around in my socks?’

‘Dad, just do it,’ I tell him.

‘If I take my belt off, my trousers will fall down,’ he says angrily.

‘You can hold them up with your hands,’ I snap.

‘Christ Almighty,’ he says loudly.

The young man looks round to his colleagues.

‘Dad, just do it,’ I say more firmly now. An extremely long queue of irritated seasoned travellers who already have their shoes, belts and coats off, is forming behind us.

‘Empty your pockets, please.’ An older and angrier-looking security man steps in.

Dad looks uncertain.

‘Oh my God, Dad, this is not a joke. Just do it.’

‘Can I empty them away from her?’

‘No, you’ll do it right here.’

‘I’m not looking.’ I turn away, baffled.

I hear clinking noises as Dad empties his pockets.

‘Sir, you were told you could not bring these things through with you.’

I spin round to see the security man holding a lighter and toe-nail clippers in his hands, the packet of cigarettes is in the tray with the photograph of Mum. And a banana.

‘Dad!’ I say.

‘Stay out of this, please.’

‘Don’t speak to my daughter like that. I didn’t know I couldn’t bring them. She said scissors and tweezers and water and—’

‘OK, we understand, sir, but we’re going to have to take these from you.’

‘But that’s my good lighter, you can’t take it from me! And what’ll I do without my clippers?’

‘We’ll buy new ones,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Now just do what they say.’

‘OK,’ he waves his hands rudely at them, ‘keep the damn things.’

‘Sir, please remove your cap, jacket, shoes and belt.’

‘He’s an old man,’ I say to the security guard in a low voice so that the gathering crowd behind us don’t hear. ‘He needs a chair to sit on to take off his shoes. And he shouldn’t have to take them off as they’re corrective footwear. Can you not just let him through?’

‘The nature of his right shoe means that we must check it,’ the man begins to explain but Dad overhears and explodes.

‘Do you think I have a BOMB IN MY SHOE? Sure, what kind of eejit would do that? Do you think I have a BOMB sittin’ on my head under my cap or in my belt? Is my banana really a GUN, do you think?’ He waves the banana around at the staff, making shooting sounds. ‘Are you all gone loony in here?’

Dad reaches for his cap. ‘Or maybe I’ve a GRENADE under my—’

He doesn’t have the opportunity to finish as everything goes crazy. He is whisked away before my eyes and I am taken to a small cell-like room and ordered to wait.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

After fifteen minutes of sitting alone in the sparse interrogation room with nothing but a table and chair, I hear the door in the next room open, then close. I hear the squeak of chair legs and then Dad’s voice, as always, louder than everyone else’s. I move closer to the wall and press my ear up against it.

‘Who are you travelling with?’

‘Gracie.’

‘Are you sure about that, Mr Conway?’

‘Of course! She’s my daughter, ask her yourself!’

‘Her passport tells us her name is Joyce. Is she lying to us, Mr Conway? Or are you lying?’

‘I’m not lying. Oh, I meant Joyce, I meant to say Joyce.’

‘Are you changing your story now?’

‘What story? I got the name wrong, is all. My wife is Gracie, I get confused.’

‘Where is your wife?’

‘She’s not with us any more. She’s in my pocket. I mean the photograph of her is in my pocket. At least, it was in my pocket until the lads out there took her and put her in the tray. Will I get my toe-nail clippers back, do you think? They cost me a bit.’

‘Mr Conway, you were told sharp items and lighter fluid is not permitted on the flights.’

‘I know that, but my daughter, Gracie, I mean, Joyce, went mad at me yesterday when she found my pack of smokes hidden in the Sugar Puffs and I didn’t want to take the lighter out of my pocket or she’d lose the head again. I apologise for that, though. I wasn’t intending to blow up the plane or anything.’

‘Mr Conway, please refrain from using such language. Why did you refuse to take off your shoes?’

‘I have holes in me socks!’

There is a silence.

‘I’m seventy-five years old, young man. Why on earth do I have to take my shoes off? Did you think I was going to blow the plane up with a rubber shoe? Or maybe it’s the insoles you’re worried about. Maybe you’re right, you can never tell the damage a man can do with a good insole—’

‘Mr Conway, please don’t use such language and refrain from smart-aleck behaviour or you will not be allowed on the plane. What was the reason for your refusal to remove your belt?’